


The Only Way to My Heart...

by PinkGlitterMasturbation



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And Hannibal's mind-fuckery, Bedsharing, Breathplay, Canon-typical Dubious Consent due to Will's illness, First Time, Light BDSM, Light D/s, M/M, Mental Confusion, Rough Sex, Top Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkGlitterMasturbation/pseuds/PinkGlitterMasturbation
Summary: Will and Hannibal end up in Cleveland during the RNC, with no possibility of separate rooms.  Will has some mental fallout from the case and Hannibal...comforts him, in true Hannibal fashion.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokuyoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/gifts).



> This is all my sister, mokuyoubi's fault, so blame and credit her for everything, just like I've been doing since she was born, lol. 
> 
> Even though the RNC in Cleveland is mentioned, I'm playing with timelines, and this would be set in season one, sometime after Hannibal kills Tobias, but before shit really gets bad for Will as far as illness. Will's background illness and mental fragility at this point could be read as dubious consent, but if you're reading in this fandom, I don't think you'll be surprised by anything I've written. Sex is a bit rough, but canon-typical, as are brief mentions of violence. 
> 
> Title stolen shamelessly from the Foxy Shazam song of the same name because I think of Will and Hannibal every time I hear it - also, my sister was the one who introduced me to Foxy, so there's that theme, too.

 

_Hold me, I get lonely_

_I can only wait so long_

_I’m losing my mind_

_Losing my mind_

_Keep the flowers, I’ll just give ‘em back_

_‘Cause the only way to my heart is with an axe_

_“The Only Way to My Heart…”_ \- Foxy Shazam

 

 

            “This will do, thank you,” Hannibal handed the bellhop a bundle of folded bills larger than Will had held since putting a down payment on his used Volvo.

 

            “I’m on call until midnight, sir. Ring the front desk for anything you need, sir,” the young man smiled easily and shut the door noiselessly.

 

            Will stood uncomfortably in the center of the massive suite, his reflection untidy and sullen in the floor to ceiling glass that looked over downtown Cleveland, and beyond that, the choppy waters of Lake Erie. Hannibal had long since eased Will’s battered canvas bag from his hands and onto the bellhop’s trolley when they had entered the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, so his fingers clutched the hem of his summer weight jacket, crumpling it in way that failed to comfort him.

 

            “You didn’t need to,” he began, then paused, watching as Hannibal walked past him to open the door to the bedroom. Will could see into the room, which only had one king bed. Luxurious, no doubt, with fine sheets, but still only _one_ bed.

 

            “Will,” Hannibal’s voice was between a sigh and a gentle reprimand. “Though we are, in a sense, at the mercy of killer who has chosen to strike in the midst of a city in the throes of hosting the Republican National Convention, and the poor planning of the FBI’s travel office, which failed to find us lodging, I refuse to be made a victim. I have the means to obtain us a room for the duration of our investigation, and I have.”

 

            He followed Will’s gaze and the corner of his mouth might have twitched. “I am happy to call our over-eager bellhop back to have the sofa bed pulled out, though there is certainly more than enough room.”

 

            “I’m what you would call a restless sleeper,” Will turned, grateful for the mention of the sofa. He focused his attention on the expensive microfiber couch the color of bleached bone. The paleness intimidated him, as though he were a small, grubby child again, with hands covered in engine oil. The whole suite, with its nightly cost in four digits _before the decimal_ , intimidated him. Will would have thought Hannibal had pushed his buttons on purpose, but he knew that all the reasonably-priced rooms in the city and extending in a wide radius through the suburbs were occupied by reporters, lower-level politicians, and conventioneers.

 

            “Though,” Hannibal continued, expertly scenting Will’s hesitation. “Your quality of sleep would no doubt be improved on a mattress that actually meets human standards.”

 

            “Worried about me?” Will asked, more acid in his tone than he had meant to allow.

 

            Hannibal was unflappable, as always. “Your well-being is important to the success of the investigation,” he reasoned, then, with the barest hint of a smile, “And to me, personally, as your friend.”

 

            “Hmm,” Will looked away. Hannibal labeled them _friends_ so easily. Will was inherently suspicious of anything not hard-won with blood, sweat, or tears. He shook himself out of the pull of memories of such things, coming back to the present before he could be fully lost into the past. “We need to talk to the field office here,” he changed the subject.

 

            “I’ll arrange for a vehicle,” Hannibal replied, lifting the phone.

 

 

_Ten Hours Later_

 

            Will was covered in blood. The smell of iron was sharp in his nostrils, and though Hannibal held his elbow in a firm grip, guiding him, he barely registered the touch. Things with the killer had come to a head much, much sooner than anticipated, and even though Will had pulled his gun and shot with much less hesitation than he’d displayed in the Hobbs’s kitchen, he’d still failed to save the latest victim, had felt an innocent man’s blood spray across his face, then flow over his hands as he had attempted to hold the wound. Hannibal, cool and collected, had placed strong hands beside his own, but the wound was too deep, and even the presence of a highly trained surgeon was no help.

 

            The blood was dried now, tightening on Will’s skin, itching. He had been interviewed by other agents and police officers, had submitted to crime scene techs patting his face and hands with swabs. Hannibal had been pulled aside, had gone through the same process. When they’d been cleared to leave, Hannibal had called for a car service, something with tinted windows, had arranged for the officious bell-hop to meet them at the service entrance to the hotel, to get them to their room without walking like something out of a slasher film through the lobby.

 

            And now, Hannibal was leading him into the bathroom, with its marble sinks and shower larger than Will’s entire bathroom at home.

 

            “Will? Are you alright?” Hannibal’s voice was soft, his accent gentle and soothing, though Will knew, somewhere deep inside, that Hannibal was a dangerous creature. Was this how a mouse felt, hypnotized by the beauty and grace of a snake?

 

            “His mind was particularly tangled,” Will confessed, too tired to play word games with his… _psychiatrist_? _Conversation partner_? _Friend_? What _was_ Hannibal to him? Another question he was too tired to try to answer.

 

            Hannibal nodded, standing in front of Will, his fingers hovering over the buttons on Will’s shirt. “You need a shower. Do you require physical help, support?”

 

            Will glanced down at Hannibal’s long fingers, at the blood in the nail beds and lines of his olive skin. The thought of Hannibal undressing him, of supporting him as he washed the evidence of a grisly crime from his body – it aroused something in Will, even though Hannibal’s face wore professional concern, not sexual intent. That realization was enough to lift Will partially out of his haze.

 

            “No,” he spoke harshly, then added, softer, “no, no thank you, Hannibal.”

 

            “I’ll be just outside if you need me,” Hannibal backed away, his eyes on Will until he closed the door.

 

            Will quickly pulled his clothes off, turned the water as hot as safety would allow, and scrubbed viciously. The hotel’s ‘handmade in small batches’ soap and shampoo smelled like lemon and basil – the true, essential oils, not a false approximation. He grinned to himself, wondering what Hannibal would think, to smell something other than cheap cologne on Will’s body, but shut that thought down almost as quickly as it arose. Other things were rising, too, to Will’s consternation.

 

            He ignored his erection, gritting his teeth as he ended the shower with cold water. It was due to lingering thoughts of the killer whose mind he had entered, of the man’s death fetish, Will told himself. It had nothing to do with imagining Hannibal’s bloody fingers trailing over his flesh, of how that thin line of a mouth might spread wide.

 

            Shaking himself like one of his dogs (he needed to call Alana, make sure she had checked on them), he dried off, then realized he had brought in no clean clothes. He also realized that his bloodied clothes were gone, and the only coverings available were the towel, wrapped around his waist, or the white hotel robe hanging from the back of the door. Hannibal had entered the room while he was showering, had taken his clothing. Will dropped the towel and shrugged into the robe, knotting it tightly at his waist.

 

           When he opened the bathroom door cautiously, he saw Hannibal sitting on the bed. He was clean as well, his hair damp, leaving Will to briefly wonder where the second bathroom in the suite was. Those thoughts fled as he took in Hannibal’s night clothes, a simple button down shirt and pants set of the palest blue with a navy robe over top. Even from five feet away Will could see the fine weave of the cotton, and imagined it felt like gossamer. _Or maybe a spider’s web_. The top few buttons of the nightshirt were uncharacteristically undone.

 

          “Feeling more like yourself?” Hannibal held out a small tumbler of amber colored liquid.

 

          Will accepted it, glad to have something to clutch. “I’m not sure completely sure what _myself_ is, so I can’t be sure what that feels like.” He sounded dry and brittle, bitter.

 

         “The desire to know one’s self has been a quest since at least the ancient Egyptians, carved into temples in Luxor to remind initiates that they need to start their journey to God within themselves. It has never been a simple process; struggle is expected.” Hannibal didn’t seem at all bothered by the pacing Will had begun. He was as relaxed as if they were in his office, not the foreign space of a hotel room – a hotel _bedroom_.

 

            “And in our modern society, we’ve traded priests for psychiatrists?” Will needled as he sipped on the whisky. It was incredibly smooth, with none of the burn of the cheap liquor he occasionally drank. He almost missed that burn, the reminder of his sin of vice, but then felt like a petulant child for the thought.

 

            “I’m not your psychiatrist, Will,” Hannibal said evenly. “Our relationship is one of friendship, and informal conversations.”

 

            Will made a scoffing noise as he stopped in front of Hannibal. “And blood. Doesn’t it bother you that all our interactions are filtered through lenses of pain, blood, death – evil?”

 

            “Does it bother _you_?” Hannibal asked. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, though Will had unconsciously violated his space, the hem of the hotel robe brushing Hannibal’s knee.

 

            Tugging a hand through tangled, wet hair, Will turned away. “I don’t know,” he gulped down the rest of the whisky as if it were a cheap shot.

 

            Hannibal made a noise of disappointment in the back of his throat, just loud enough for Will to catch. Will gave a short bark of a laugh as he sat the glass down on the dresser.

 

            “Sorry,” he couldn’t keep a wry grin from his face. “That was probably twenty-five year old whisky.”

 

            “Sixty,” Hannibal corrected with a grimace.

 

            “It was delicious,” Will smiled wider. He couldn’t deny that he found the fact that the only thing that had disturbed Hannibal in the day’s event was the misuse of expensive liquor amusing.

 

            “It was made to be savored,” Hannibal stood, his eyes focused on Will like a predator as he advanced.

 

            Will was not a fanciful man, not poetic in the least, but he was incredibly observant, and Hannibal’s eyes were something worth observing. They defied categorization – seeming to be different colors in different lights. Will could have sworn he’d seen flecks of a cinnamon red in them at times. Eyes may be the windows of the soul, but Hannibal’s were heavily shuttered, giving away very little, like the rest of his face. Hannibal was the only person Will knew who seemed to use _only_ micro-expressions. A slight twitch of his lips indicated deep humor, a flick of his gaze indicated a point of great interest, and as empathic as Will was, he was still learning how to decipher the stingy nature of clues Hannibal presented to the world.

 

            Though a small part of Will, the oldest, most basic part, hard-wired for survival, was telling him to run, he remained still. He told himself that it was the killer’s lingering influence, the desire to play with fire he was currently feeling. Oh, God, was Hannibal fire or ice? Was he both? Remnants of a Robert Frost poem he’d had to memorize in eighth grade floated through his mind. If he touched Hannibal, would the world end?

 

            “What do you need to come back to yourself, Will?” Hannibal was so close now, Will could feel his warm, whisky-tinged breath on his skin. “How can I help you?”

 

            Will shut his eyes. “What I need and what will help me aren’t necessarily the same thing,” he breathed, the words slipping from his lips unbidden. He kept his eyes closed. He wasn't sure if he could bear it if Hannibal’s face continued to be a mask when he had lowered his own.

 

            A finger slid under his chin, lifting it, the touch so light it was more of a suggestion than an action. Will’s eyes came open, his gaze falling on Hannibal’s lips, which seemed wider, redder.

 

            “Shall I split the difference and ask what you _want_?” those red lips moved, revealing sharp white teeth.

 

            “The impossible,” Will spoke quietly, as if Hannibal were somehow pulling the words from him, like a magician unfurling yard after yard of silk from his throat. “I want to not think, I want to feel, but I want to feel something real, authentic, not the emotions wrapped so tightly in society’s expectations and repression that all life is strangled from them.”

 

            “Ah,” Hannibal smiled, a wide, true smile, and it was dazzling. Will couldn’t look away – he didn’t want to, and Hannibal’s hand still held his chin. “You want to feel freedom.”

 

            Will tried to shake his head, immediately, involuntarily, but Hannibal’s fingers dug into his jaw. He thought for a moment. Though his instinct had been to reject the word, it felt true.   “Yes, freedom,” Will finally said. “Does it exist in this world? Or is it only in the minds of the madmen we hunt? They are free, or think themselves free of society’s rules. But aren’t they slaves to their compulsions, to their need to kill?”

 

            “Excellent questions, Will, and we can discuss them at length, later,” Hannibal smirked. “But if you want to be free, to feel, then you need to stop thinking for the moment.”

 

            He closed the few inches between them and kissed Will, bringing up his other hand to take Will’s face in both his hands, and Will could hardly process all the sensations – Hannibal’s skin was surprisingly warm and smooth, and he smelled like the same soap as Will, tasted like the same whisky, but there was something else underneath, something like a dream, maybe a nightmare, the flavor of the deep forest on his tongue, primordial, and Will wondered what it would be like to fall into that, to let himself go.

 

            “Remember,” Hannibal’s lips were whispering in his ear as the he pulled Will toward the bed by the knot of the robe. “No thinking.”

 

            The bark of laughter, an old and well-used defense mechanism was swallowed dryly in Will’s throat as Hannibal deftly untied the robe, and it fell to the ground at Will’s feet.

 

            He had been poked and prodded by doctors, had walked in only boxers and a thin t-shirt down public roads, but Will had never felt so exposed. Hannibal’s consideration was not like any other’s, going past his flesh, laying him bare to the soul, if such a thing existed.

 

            Will could only breathe, and hardly that, as Hannibal ran fingers down his arms, his back, his chest, neatly trimmed nails somehow managing to score the flesh enough to tingle, yet not leave a mark. He was on fire, electric, and it felt dangerous, like if he continued, his death would be imminent, but his feet wouldn’t move, his muscles wouldn’t obey.

 

            Hannibal was behind him now, and he could feel the faint rustle of clothing, Hannibal’s light footsteps retreating, then returning. With the return came heat, Hannibal’s skin inches from his own, radiating warmth and intention so fiercely that Will shuddered from head to toe without being touched. His cock, long since interested, was now painfully hard, throbbing in a way that made him long to run back to the shower, to kill his desires, his surely self-destructive urges, with icy water.

 

            Hands came to rest on his hips, thumbs stroking at the knobs of his pelvic bone. “You need to eat more,” Hannibal whispered, and Will shuddered again, not from the words, nor even the care implied in them, but from that voice, all rich and dark, a sound that had haunted Will’s thoughts, echoing in his mind since they’d met.

 

            “Relax, Will,” Hannibal continued, pulling Will back into him, into his strength and hardness and burning warmth. “I will help you find freedom.”

 

            Will squirmed against him. It was overwhelming, all those points of contact. Every place their skin met, Will felt an explosion – desire and fear so intermingled he couldn’t untangle them. He started to ask how, but Hannibal’s fingers pressed over his mouth. “Answer my questions, but don’t talk otherwise. It will lead to too much thinking. Do you understand?”

 

            Nodding against Hannibal’s hand, Will forced himself not to jerk away. He had come this far. Pulling away now would leave them both unsatisfied – mentally more than sexually. They had been dancing around each other, trying to both hide from and know one another for months, and as odd as this was, Will felt that it was natural progression. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , do something like this with anyone else, but Hannibal was beyond all rules. He simultaneously raised and lowered all of Will’s defenses.

           

            There was push, and Will fell onto the bed, face first. He broke his fall by going onto his hands and knees, acutely aware of how vulnerable a position it was. The cotton of the white duvet under him felt cool and smooth as silk. The thread count had to be astronomical. He wondered what stains would cover it by the end of the night, and shivered, pulled into the reality of what they were doing. He was naked. _Naked with Hannibal._

 

            Hannibal was close again, at the edge of the bed, moving Will’s hips backwards with a light grip. Thoughts fled at Hannibal’s touch, at those clever fingers that he had seen save lives, prepare gourmet meals, play beautiful music, render sketches that were photographic in their realism, and, he knew, fingers that had killed Tobias. Were they still the fingers of a man if they knew no limits? If they could both beautifully create or terribly destroy? At what point did a man become a God?

 

            “Will,” Hannibal’s voice was terse. “Come back.”

 

            “Does freedom feel like this?” His hand traced the line of Will’s spine, softly, up and down, starting at the nape of his neck and continuing to the sacral dimple just above his buttocks. It was nice, at first, but then the sensation accumulated and Will needed something else, something more.

           

            “Or more like this?” Hannibal’s fingers dipped lower, sliding between his cheeks, probing roughly but deliberately, just enough to make Will’s breath catch loudly.

 

            “I thought as much,” Will could _hear_ the smirk in Hannibal’s voice, but he didn’t care. How long had it been since he’d given into this? Into the needs of his body? With another person? Hannibal had unlocked a door Will had kept padlocked, and now, he was ravenous.

 

            Will twisted, facing Hannibal, who was gazing down at him with those fucking intense eyes, as if he could swallow Will whole with a look. “Devour me,” he whispered, as he reached for Hannibal, pulling him closer by the back of his neck, not sure where the words had come from – had he seen into _Hannibal’s_ own desires?

 

            Hannibal’s eyes widened, his mouth tightened, and Will knew he had. Hannibal did want to devour him, and he’d just given the man permission. His survival instincts were none-existent, he realized.

 

            “Oh, Will,” Hannibal sighed, and kissed him again, though there was no longer any pretense at civility or tenderness. It was all tongues and teeth and bitten lips. Will tasted iron, and it was welcome this time, the taste of blood. Was it his or Hannibal’s? Both?

 

            They rolled over the bed, hands roaming each other’s bodies, pulling hair, scraping flesh, biting, and yet, for as raw as it was, Will felt what Hannibal had promised – free. The earlier crack in Hannibal’s mask widened, and Will felt so much leaking through. He mirrored back all the man’s actions. When Hannibal’s hand closed over his cock and pumped viciously, Will did the same. When Hannibal pushed two fingers inside of him, burning and stretching, but also filling, Will did the same. Were they fucking each other or themselves? Or some insane hybrid they had become? Will didn’t know, nor did he care.

 

            Hannibal allowed the tit for tat to continue for quite a while, receiving all he took, but then, suddenly, Will found himself flipped onto his back, Hannibal’s hand at his throat, pushing him into the downy duvet, threatening, pressing, but not squeezing. He could barely swallow against the pressure, but his cock pulsed, twitching at Hannibal’s roughness.

 

            Of course, Hannibal noticed this, and used his free hand to stroke lazily at Will, a gentle, indulgent tsking sound coming from his throat as clear liquid spilled freely from Will’s cock.

 

            “My head is a dangerous place to occupy, Will,” he squeezed tightly and Will hissed in pain. “It is _not_ where you will find your freedom. Kindly depart.”

 

            “How?” Will managed to speak under Hannibal’s hand with effort.

 

            Hannibal eased his grip on Will’s cock, though not his throat. He moved his hand in a twisting motion, faster and faster, and Will’s hips moved off the bed of their own volition.

 

           “Give in,” Hannibal said, as if that were a simple thing to do, as if that were Will’s only choice. His hand tightened at Will’s throat even as his strokes became more sensuous. Maybe submission was the only choice. “I’ll guide you back into yourself.”

 

            With those words, he let go of Will’s throat, and turned him quickly onto his stomach. The sudden unrestricted access to oxygen left Will light-headed, and before he could recover himself, get his bearings, either physically or mentally, Hannibal was _inside_ of him, those god-like hands on Will’s hips, impaling him on Hannibal’s cock, which felt harder than marble, hotter than a human’s temperature. Fire and ice again.

 

            It burned, and stretched, and he was sure he would be bloody afterwards, but he was so aroused, so painfully far gone, that the pain was secondary, and Will was self-aware enough to know that he had deep-running masochist tendencies, and that, no matter how well Hannibal covered himself in gentility and culture, the man was a sadist. Of course they would come together like this.

 

            Hannibal was also, Will quickly learned, the kind of lover who didn’t let go until total surrender was achieved. He was thrusting into Will with brutal efficiency, hitting his prostate with each stroke, but his breathing was hardly disturbing. Will was a sweating, panting, moaning mess, and it wasn’t enough.

 

           “Be free of your mind, Will,” Hannibal’s voice was a command, and there was no possibility of refusing it.

 

          “Be pure sensation, bliss,” his words were caressing Will as surely as his hand had earlier. Will felt fingers tangle in his curls, pull his head back, and Hannibal’s mouth biting at his ear between words.

 

          That hand slid back to Will’s throat, tightening just enough to blur the edges of Will’s reality, to send him somewhere else, where Hannibal was the one and only God, and Will was his devoted acolyte.

 

         “Come and be free, Will,” he purred, and Will imagined he might die, die at Hannibal’s fingers, at the pleasure and pain he was inflicting. Would the good doctor bother to resurrect him or was he a sacrifice to the vicious pagan god that lurked behind Hannibal’s mask?

 

          But that was the last coherent thought, because Will obeyed his God, and became pure joy, forgot for a few moments that it was only a natural flood of intoxicating chemicals, and felt himself shuddering, coming all over the expensive duvet, shouting and trying to reach backwards, his fingers grasping for Hannibal’s flesh, but all of that was experienced as a shadow, a secondary set of circumstances. He was in his mind, yet not, the pleasure pushing him beyond himself to simply _be_.

 

         How long he was in that state, Will was not sure, but when he came back, Hannibal was pulling him closer, and Will felt Hannibal’s whole form shudder as he came. They collapsed into the bed, still joined, and Hannibal’s arms folded around him. Will did not resist. Hannibal had delivered on his promise, and Will’s mind was clearer than it had been in months. There were other concerns now, obviously, but Will wasn’t going to deal with them now. He was going to sleep in Hannibal’s arms and hold onto this painful and dangerous clarity, no matter where it lead him.  

**Author's Note:**

> The poem mentioned is "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost - and I really did have to memorize it in eighth grade.


End file.
